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L'BRARY^OF^CONGRESs! 

Chap Copyright No 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




BACHELOR BALLADS 




ACHELOR 
BALLADS 



Being Certain of the Masterpieces 
of Verse ; Wherein is Set Forth the 
Sentiment of Good-Fellowship : 

SET TO PICTURES BY 
BLANCHE "McMANUS : : !^--n^i^^\<x 






NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK 
COMPANY : : NEW YORK 



COPYRIGHT 1898 

BY 

NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK CO. 



r 






:I8925 



TWO COPIES RECEIVED* 




CONTENTS 

Give Me The Old - - - 5 

The Mahogany Tree - - 11 

The Betrothed - - - 17 

A Seat For Three - - 25 

A Hunting We Will Go - - 29 

Let The Toast Pass - - 34 

To Celia - - - - 37 

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse - 41 
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea - 49 

How Stands the Glass Around - ^1, 

A Bachelor's Dream - - ~ 57 

At an Inn at Henley - - 65 

Wreathe The Bowl - - - 69 

The Fire of Driftwood - - 75 

Fill The Bumper Fair - - 81 

A Recipe For a Salad - - 87 

The Wants of Man - - - 91 



Contents 

The Angler's Wish - - 97 

The Rim of The Bowl - - loi 

A Farewell to Tobacco - - 107 

A Golden Girl - - - 115 

John Barleycorn - - - 119 

In Praise of Angling - - - 125 

The Cane-Bottom'd Chair - 131 

Hunting Song - - - - 137 

Drinking Song - ^ - - 141 

Dedication _ _ _ _ i^y 

The Tables Turned - - 153 

AuLD Lang Syne - - ~ ^57 



GIVE ME THE OLD 



GIFE ME THE OLD 




Old ivine to driyik, old zoood to burn, old 
books to read, and old friends to converse xvith. 

C\\JD wine to drink! — 

Ay, give me the slippery juice 
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose 

Within the tun; 
Plucked from beneath the cliff 
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 

And ripened 'neath the blink 

Of India's sun! 

Peat whiskey hot, 
Tempered with well-boiled water ! 
These make the long night shorter, — 

Forgetting not 
Good stout old English porter. 



Give Me the Old. 



Old wood to burn ! — 
Ay, bring the hill-side beech 
From where the owlets meet and screech, 

And ravens croak ; 
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; 
Bring too a clump of fragrant peat. 
Dug 'neath the fern ; 

The knotted oak, 

A faggot too, perhap 
Whose bright flame, dancing, winking. 
Shall light us at our drinking ; 

While the oozing sap 
Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 

Old books to read ! — 
Ay, bring those nodes of wit. 
The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ. 

Time-honored tomes ! 
The same my sire scanned before. 
The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 
The same his sire from college bore, 

The well-earned meed 

Of Oxford's domes : 
Old Homer blind. 
Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie ; 
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie. 



Give Me the Old. 

Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay '• 
And Gervase Markham's venerie — 

Nor leave behind 
The Holye Book by which we live and die. 

Old friends to talk ! — 
Ay, bring those chosen few. 
The wise, the courtly, and the true, 

So rarely found ; 
Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
Him for my easel, distich, bud 

In mountain walk ! 
Bring Walter good : 
With soulful Fred ; and learned Will, 
And thee, my alter egOy (dearer still 

For every word.). 

— Robert Hinckley Messinger 




THE MAHOGANY TREE 



rHE MAHOGANY TREE 




pHRISTMAS is here; 
Winds whistle shrill, 
Icy and chill, 
Little care we ; 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Sheltered about 
The Mahogany Tree. 



Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom ; 
Night-birds are we ; 
Here we carouse. 
Singing, like them. 



12 T^he Mahogany Tree. 

Perched round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport. 
Boys, as we sit, — 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 
Life is but short, — 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on. 
Round the old tree. 

Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this ; 
Faces we miss, 
Pleasant to see. 
Kind hearts and true. 
Gentle and just. 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate : 
Let the dog wait ; 
Happy we'll be ! 
Drink, every one ; 
Pile up the coals ; 



The Mahogany 'Tree. 



i3 



Fill the red bowls, 
Round the old tree ! 

Drain we the cup. — 
Friend, art afraid ? 
Spirits are laid 
In the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; 
Empty it yet ; 
Let us forget, 
Round the old tree. 



Sorrows, begone ! 
Life and its ills, 
Duns and their bills. 
Bid we to flee. 
Come with the dawn. 
Blue-devil sprite ; 
Leave us to-night. 
Round the old tree ! 



— William Makkpeack Thackeray 




THE BETROTHED. 



THE BETROTHED, 




YOU must choose between me and your cigar. 

/^PEN the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, 
For things are running crossways, and Mag- 
gie and I are out. 

We quarreled about Havanas — we fought o'er a 

good cheroot, 
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a 

brute. 

Open the old cigar-box — let me consider a space ; 
In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on 
Maggie's face. 

Maggie is pretty to look at — Maggie's a loving 
lass, 



1 8 The Betrothed. 

But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest 
of loves must pass. 

There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a 

Henry Clay, 
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and 

thrown away — 

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and 

brown — 
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' 

the talk o' the town ! 

Maggie, my wife at fifty — gray and dour and 

old— 
With never another Maggie to purchase for love 

or gold ! 

And the light of the Days that have Been, the 

dark of the Days that Are, 
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the 

butt of a dead cigar — 

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep 

in your pocket — 
With never a new one to light tho' its charred 

and black to the socket. 



I'he Betrothed. 19 

Open the old cigar-box — let me consider a 

while — 
Here is a mild Manila — there is a wifely smile. 

Which is the better portion — bondage bought 

with a ring. 
Or a harem of dusky beauties — fifty tied in a 

string ? 

Counsellors cunning and silent — comforters true 

and tried, 
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival 

bride. 

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of 

woes. 
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my 

eyelids close. 

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in re- 
turn. 

With only a Suttee's passion — to do their duty 
and burn. 

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent 
and dead. 

Five times other fifties shall be my servants in- 
stead. 



20 The Betrothed. 

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Span- 
ish Main, 

When they hear my harem is empty, will send 
me my brides again. 

I will take no heed for their raiment, nor food 

for their mouths withal, 
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the 

showers fall. 

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I 

temper their hides, 
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who 

read the tale of my brides. 

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my 

choice between 
The wee little whimpering Love, and the great 

god Nick o' Teen. 

And I have been servant of Love for barely a 

twelvemonth clear. 
But I have been priest of Partagas a matter of 

seven year ; 

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked 
with the cheery light 



'The Betrothed. 1 1 

Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleas- 
ure and Work and Fight. 

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie 

and I must prove. 
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'- 

the-Wisp of Love. 

Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave 

me bogged in the mire ? 
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I 

follow the fitfiil fire ? 

Open the old cigar-box — let me consider anew — 
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should 
abandon you ? 

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear 

the yoke ; 
And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar 

is a smoke. 

Light me another Cuba ; I hold to my first-sworn 
vows, 

If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Mag- 
gie for spouse ! 

— RuDYARD Kipling. 



A SEAT FOR THREE 



A SEAT FOR THREE 




Written on the panels of a settle. 

t i A SEAT for three, where host and guest 
May side-by-side pass toast or jest; 
And be their number two or three, 
With elbow-room and hberty, 
What need to wander east or west ? 



^A book for thought, a nook for rest 
And meet for fasting or for fest. 
In fair and equal parts to be 
A seat for three. 



16 



A Seat For Three 



"Then give you pleasant company, 
For youth or elder shady tree ; 

A roof for council or sequest, 
A corner in a homely nest ; 

Free, equal, and fraternally 
A seat for three." 



— Walter Crane 




A HUNTING WE WILL GO 



A HUNTING WE WILL GO 




npHE dusky night rides down the sky, 

And ushers in the morn : 
The hounds all join in glorious cry, 
The huntsman winds his horn. 

And a hunting we will go. 

The wife around her husband throws 
Her arms, to make him stay ; 

" My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows ; 
You cannot hunt to day." 

Yet a hunting we will go. 

Awav they fly to 'scape the rout, 

Their steeds they soundly switch; 

Some are thrown in, and some thrown out. 
And some thrown in the ditch. 

Yet a hunting we will go. 



30 A Hunting We Will Go 

Sly Reynard, now, like lightning flies, 
And sweeps across the vale ; 

And when the hounds too near he spies. 
He drops his bushy tail. 

Then a hunting we will go. 

Fond Echo seems to like the sport. 

And join the jovial cry ; 
The woods, the hills, the sound retort;. 

And music fills the sky. 

When a hunting we do go. 

At last his strength to faintness worn, 
Poor Reynard ceases flight ; 

Then hungry, homeward we return. 
To feast away the night. 

And a drinking we do go. 

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn 
Prepare them for the chase ; 

Rise at the sounding of the horn 

And health with sport embrace. 

When a hunting we do go. 

— Henry Fielding. 



LET THE TOAST PASS 



LET THE rOASr PASS 




T-TERE'S to the maiden of bashful fifteen ; 

Here's to the widow of fifty ; 
Here's to the fiaunting, extravagant quean, 

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. 
Let the toast pass. 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse tor the glas? 



Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, 

Now to the maid who has none, sir ; 
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, 

And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. 
Let the toast pass. 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. 



34 



Let the 'Toast Pass 



Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow ; 

Now to her that's as brown as a berry ; 
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe. 
And now to the damsel that's merry. 
Let the toast pass. 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. 

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim. 

Young or ancient, I care not a feather ; 
So fill the pint bumper quite up to the brim. 

So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim. 
And let us e'en toast them together. 
Let the toast pass. 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. 

— The School /or Scandal. 




ro CELIA 



ro CELIA 




From the Greek of riiilostratus 
Translation of Ben Jon son 



ir^RINK to me only with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 



I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 
Not so much honoringr thee. 



38 



To Celia 



As giving it a hope that there 
It could not withered be. 

But thou thereon dids't only breathe. 
And sent'st it back to me ; 

Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, 
Not of itself, but thee. 




THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 




A STREET there is in Paris famous. 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is — 

The New Street of the Little Fields ; 
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid. 

But still in comfortable case — 
The which in youth I oft attended. 
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 



This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 

Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes. 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 

Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern, 
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 



42 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 

All these you eat at Terre's tavern, 
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 



Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is ; 

And true philosophers, methinks. 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace. 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting. 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is as before ; 
The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terre still alive and able ? 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He'd come and smile before your table. 

And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter ; nothing's changed or older. 

" How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray ? " 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulders ; — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race ! " 



The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 4-7. 

" What will Monsieur require for dinner ? " 
" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " 

" Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; 

" Quel vin Monsieur deslre-t-il ? " 
" Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
" So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 
. My old accustomed corner-place ; 
" He's done with feasting and wine drinking. 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustomed corner here is — 

The table still is In the nook ; 
Ah ! vanished many a busy year Is, 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghiy 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 
Of early days, here met to dine ? 

Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty — 

I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 

The kind old voices and old faces 
My memory can quick retrace ; 



44 1"^^ Ballad of BGuillabaisse 

Around the board they take their places, 
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 



There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James' head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace 
Since here we sat the Claret flowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone. 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting. 

In this same place — but not alone. 
A fair young form was nestled near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. 

— There's no one now to share my cup. 



I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes ; 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 



'The Ballad of Bouillabaisse 



45 



Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

— Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 



— William Makepeace Thackera'* 




A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 



A WEr SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 




yi WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys. 

While like an eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 



" O for a soft and gentle wind ! " 

I hear a fair one cry ; 
But give me to the snoring breeze. 

And white waves heaving high ; 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free, — 



50 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 

The world of waters is our home, 
And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners, 

The wind is piping loud ; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashing free, — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

— Allan Cunningham 




HOW^ STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? 



H01V STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? 




JJOW stands the glass around? 

For shame ye take no care, my hoys; 

How stands the glass around ? 

Let mirth and wine abound. 

The trumpets sound ; 
The colors they are flying, boys. 

To fight, kill or wound. 

May we still be found 
Content with our hard fare, my boys. 

On the cold ground. 

Why, soldiers, why, 
Should we be melancholy, boys ? 
Why, soldiers, why ? 



54 



How Standi the Glass Around? 

Whose business 'tis to die ! 

What, sighing ? fie ! 
Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys ! 

'Tis he, you or I ! 

Cold, hot, wet or dry. 
We're always bound to follow, boys, 

And scorn to fly. 

'Tis but in vain — 
I mean not to upbraid you, boys — 

'Tis but in vain 

For soldiers to complain : 

Should next campaign 
Send us to Him who made us, boys. 

We're free from pain ! 

But if we remain, 
A bottle and a kind landlady 



Cure all again. 



— Anonymous 




THE BACHELOR'S DREAM 



"fHE BACHELOR'S DREAM 




]\/TY pipe Is lit, my grog is mixed, 

My curtains drawn and all is snug ; 
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, 
And Tray is sitting on the rug. 
Last night I had a curious dream, 
Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 



She looked so fair, she sang so well, 
I could but woo and she was won. 
Myself in blue, the bride in white. 
The ring was placed, the deed was done ! 



58 The Bachelor s Dream 

Away we went in chaise-and-four, 
As fast as grinning boys could flog, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

What loving tete-a-tetes to come ! 
But tete-a-tetes must still defer ! 
When Susan came to live with me, 
Her mother came to live with her. 
With sister Belle she couldn't part. 
But all my ties had leave to jog, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

The mother brought a pretty Poll, 

A monkey, too, what work he made ! 

The sister introduced a beau. 

My Susan brought a favorite maid. 

She had a tabby of her own, — 

A snappish mongrel christened Gog, — 

What d'ye think of that, my cat .? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

The monkey bit, the parrot screamed. 
All day the sister strummed and sung ; 
The petted maid was such a scold ! 
My Susan learned to use her tongue ; 



'The Bachelors Dream ro 

Her mother had such wretched health. 
She sat and croaked like any frog, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, 
I soon came down to simple " M ! " 
The very servants crossed my wish, 
. My Susan let me down to them. 
The poker hardly seemed my own, 
I might as well have been a log, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

My clothes they were the queerest shape ! 
Such coats and hats she never met ! 
My ways they were the oddest ways ! 
My friends were such a vulgar set ! 
Poor Tomkinson was snubbed and huffed, 
She could not bear that Mister Blogg, — 
Whaj: d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

At times we had a spar, and then 
Mamma must mingle in the song ; 
The sister took a sister's part ; 
The maid declared her master wrong ; 



6o 1'he Bachelor^ s Dream 

The parrot learned to call me " Fool ! " 
My life was like a London fog, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

My Susan's taste was superfine. 

As proved by bills that had no end ; 

/ never had a decent coat, 

/ never had a coin to spend ! 

She forced me to resign my club. 

Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog, — 

What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

Each Sunday night we gave a rout 
To fops and flirts, a pretty list ; 
And when I tried to steal away, 
I found my study full of whist ! 
Then, first to come and last to go. 
There always was a Captain Hogg, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 

Now was not that an awful dream 
For one who single is and snug. 
With Pussy in the elbow-chair 
And Tray reposing on the rug? — 



'The Bachelor^ s Dream 



6i 



If I must totter down the hill, 
'Tis safest done without a clog, — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat ? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog ? 



— Thomas Hood 




AT AN INN AT HENLET, 



AT AN INN AT HENLEY. 




^pO thee, fair Freedom, I retire 

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 

Nor art thou found in mansions higher 
Than the low cot or humble inn. 

'Tis here with boundless power I reign, 
And every health which I begin 

Converts dull port to bright champagne : 
Such freedom crowns it at an inn. 

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 

1 fly from falsehood's specious grin ; 

Freedom I love and form I hate. 

And choose my lodgings at an inn. 



66 



At an Inn at Henley. 



Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, 

Which lackeys else might hope to win ; 

It buys what courts have not in store. 
It buys me freedom at an inn. 

Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round, 
Where'er his stages may have been, 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The warmest welcome at an inn. 

William Shenstonk. 



a==J) 




WREATHE THE BOWL. 



JVKEATHE THE BOWL, 




\^REATHE the bowl 

With flowers of soul. 

The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight 
Towards heav'n to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us ; 
Should Love amid 
The wreaths be hid 

That Joy, the enchanter, brings us. 
No danger fear 
While wine is near — 

We'll drown him if he stings us. 
Then wreathe the bowl 
With flowers of soul. 
The brightest Wit can find us ; 



7© Wreathe the Bowl. 



We'll take a flight 
Towards heav'n to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us ! 

'Twas nectar fed 

Of old, 'tis said. 
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; 

And man may brew 

His nectar too ; 
The rich receipt's as follows : — 

Take wine like this ; 

Let looks of bliss 
Around it well be blended ; 

Then bring Wit's beam 

To warm the stream, 
And there's your nectar, splendid ! 

So wreathe the bowl. 

With flowers of soul. 
The brightest Wit can find us ; 

We'll take a flight 

Towards heav'n to-night. 
And leave dull earth behind us ! 

Say, why did Time 
His glass sublime 
Fill up with sands unsightly. 
When wine he knew 
Runs brisker through, 



Wreathe the Bowl. 



71 



And sparkles far more brightly ? 
Oh, lend it us, 
And, smiling thus. 
The glass in two we'd sever. 
Make pleasure glide 
In double tide. 

And fill both ends for ever ! 

Then wreathe the bowl. 
With flowers of soul, 

The brightest Wit can find us ? 
We'll take a flight 
Towards heav'n to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us ! 



— Thomas Moore 




THE FIRE OF DRIFT-JVOOD. 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 




Devereux Farm, near Marblehead. 

'Y^T^E sat within the farm-house old, 

Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 
Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold. 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, — 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, — 

The lighthouse — the dismantled fort, — 
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night. 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight, — 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 



-76 The Fire of Drift-wood. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been. 
And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel, with secret pain. 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends. 
And never can be one again 

The first slight swerving of the heart. 
That words are powerless to express. 

And leave it still unsaid in part. 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips. 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships. 

The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed. 
We thought of wrecks upon the main,— 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 



1'he Fire of Drift-wood. -jy 

The windows, rattling in their frames, — 
The ocean roaring up the beach, — 

The gusty blast — the bickering flames, — 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 

Of fancies floating through the brain, — 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin, — 
The drift-wood fire without that burned. 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 




FILL THE BUMPER FAIR, 



FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 




priLL the bumper fair 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 
Wit's electric flame 

Ne'er so swiftly passes 
As when through the frame 

It shoots from brimming glasses. 
Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

Sages can, they say. 

Grasp the lightning's pinions. 



82 Fill the Bumper Fair. 

And bring down its ray 

From the starred dominions : — 

So we, sages, sit 

And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, 

From the heaven of wit 

Draw down all its lightning. 

Wouldst thou know what first 

Made our souls inherit 
This ennobling thirst 

For wine's celestial spirit ? 
It chanced upon that day, 

When, as bards inform us, 
Prometheus stole away 

The living fires that warm us : 

The careless Youth, when up 

To Glory's fount aspiring. 
Took nor urn nor cup 

To hide the pilfered fire in. — 
But oh his joy, when, round 

The halls of heaven spying 
Among the stars, he found 

A bowl of Bacchus lying ! 

Some drops were in that bowl. 
Remains of last night's pleasure. 



Fill the Bumper Fair. 

With which the sparks of soul 

Mixed their burning treasure. 
Hence the goblet's shower 

Hath such spells to win us ; 
Hence its mighty power 

O'er that flame within us. 
Fill the Bumper Fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the Brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 



83 



-Thomas Moore 




A RECIPE FOR A SALAD 



A RECIPE FOR A SALAD 



'T^O make this condiment, your poet begs 

The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled 

eggs; 
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen 

sieve, 
Smoothness and softness to the salad give. 
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl. 
And, half suspected, animate the whole. 
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon. 
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon ; 
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, 
To add a double quantity of salt. 
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca brown. 
And twice with vinegar procured from town ; 
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss 



88 



A Recipe for a Salad 



A magic soup9on of anchovy sauce. 

O, green and glorious ! O herbaceous treat ! 

'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat : 

Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, 

And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl ! 

Serenely full, the epicure would say, 

" Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day." 



Sidney Smith. 




THE WANTS OF MAN 



THE WANTS OF MAN 




' IV/fAN wants but little here below, 
Nor wants that little long," 
'Tis not with ?ne exactly so ; 

But 'tis so in the song. 
My wants are many and, if told, 
Would muster many a score ; 
And were each wish a mint of gold, 
I still should long for more, 

What first I want is daily bread — 
And canvas-backs — and wine — 

And all the realms of nature spread 
Before me, where I dine. 

Four courses scarcely can provide 
My appetite to quell ; 



92 The Wants of Man 

With four choice cooks from France beside. 
To dress my dinner well. 

What next I want, at princely cost. 

Is elegant attire : 
Black sable furs for winter's frost, 

And silk for summer's fire, 
And Cashmere shawls, and Brussel's lace 

My bosom's front to deck, — 
And diamond rings my hands to grace, 

And rubies for my neck. 

I want (who does not want ? ) a wife, — 

Affectionate and fair ; 
To solace all the woes of life. 

And all its joys to share. 
Of temper sweet, of yielding will. 

Of firm, yet placid mind, — 
A'Vith all my faults to love me still 

With sentiment refined. 

And as Time's car incessant runs, 

And Fortune fills my store, 
I want of daughters and of sons 

From eight to half a score. 
I want (alas ! can mortal dare 

Such bliss on earth to crave ? \ 



The Wants of Man po 

That all the girls be chaste and fair, — 
The boys all wise and brave. 

1 want a warm and faithful friend, 

To cheer the adverse hour ; 
Who ne'er to flatter will descend. 

Nor bend the knee to power, — 
A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, 

My inmost soul to see ; 
And that my friendship prove as strong 

To him as his to me. 

I want the seals of power and place, 

The ensigns of command ; 
Charged by the People's unbought grace 

To rule my native land. 
Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask, 

But from my country's will, 
By day, by night, to ply the task 

Her cup of bliss to fill. 

I want the voice of honest praise 

To follow me behind. 
And to be thought in future days 

The friend of human-kind. 
That after ages, as they rise. 

Exulting may proclaim 



94 T'he Wants of Man 

In choral union to the skies 
Their blessings on my name. 

These are the Wants of mortal Man^ — 

1 cannot want them long. 
For life itself is but a span. 

And earthly bliss — a sonp-. 
My last great Want — absorbing all — 

Is, when beneath the sod, 
And summoned to my final call. 
The Mercy of my God, 

— John ^uincy Adams 




<rHE ANGLER'S WISH 



^HE ANGLER'S WISH 




TIN these flowery meads would be : 
These crystal streams should solace me ; 

To whose harmonious bubbling noise 

I, with my angle, would rejoice, 

Sit here, and see the turtle dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love : 



Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty : please my mind, 
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers. 
And then washed ofi^ by April showers ; 
Here, hear my kenna sing a song : 
There, see a blackbird feed her young. 

Or a laverock build her nest : 
Here, give my weary spirits rest, 



98 The Angler s Wish 

And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love. 

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise 
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; 

Or with my Bryan and a book. 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 

There sit by him, and eat my meat ; 

There see the sun both rise and set ; 

There bid good morning to next day ; 

There meditate my time away ; 

And angle on ; and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

— IzAAK Walton 




rHE RIM OF rHE BOU^L. 



rHE RIM OF THE BOWL 




T SAT 'mid the flickering lights, when all the 
guests had departed. 
Alone at the head of the table, and dreamed 
of the days that were gone ; 
Neither asleep nor waking, nor sad nor cheery- 
hearted — 
But passive as a leaf by the mild November 
blown. 
1 thought — if thinking 'twere, when thoughts 
were dimmer than shadows — 
And toyed the while with the music I drew 
from the rim of the bowl. 
Passive, my fingers round, as if my will com- 
pelled it 
To answer my shapeless dreams, as soul 
might answer soul. 



I02 The Rim of the Bowl 

Idle I was, and listless ; but melody and fancy 
Came out of that tremendous dulcimer, as 
my hand around it strayed ; 
The rim was a magic circle, and mine was the 
necromancy 
That summoned its secrets forth, to take 
the forms I bade. 
Secrets ! ay ! buried secrets, forgotten for twenty 
summers. 
But living anew in the odors of the roses 
at the board; 
Secrets of Truth and Passion, and the days of 
Life's unreason ; 
Perhaps not at all atoned for, in the judg- 
ments of the Lord. 

Secrets that still shall slumber, for I will not 
bare my bosom 
To the gaze of the heartless, prying, incon- 
scionable crowd. 
That would like to know, I doubt not, how 
much I have sinned and suffered. 
And drag me down to its level — because it 
would humble the proud. 
Beautiful spirits they were, that danced on the 
rim at my bidding : 
Spirits of Joy or Sadness, in their brief, 
sweet summer day ; 



'The Rim of the Bowl 103 

Spirits that aye possess me, and keep me if I 
wander, 
In the line of the straight, and the flower of 
the fruitful way. 

Spirits of women and children — spirits of friends 
departed — 
Spirits of dear companions that have gone 
to the levelling tomb. 
Hallowed forever and ever with the sanctity 
of sorrow. 
And the aureole of death that crowns them 
in the gloom. 
Spirits of Hope and Faith, and one supremely 
lovely, 
That sang to me years agone, when I was a 
little child. 
And sported at her footstool or lay upon her 
bosom. 
And gazed at the love that dazzled me, 
from her eyes so soft and mild. 

And that song from the rim of the bowl came 
sounding and sounding ever — 
As oft it had done before in the toil and 
moil of life ; 

A song nor sad nor merry, but low and sweet 
and plaintive ; 



I04 



The Rim of the Bowl 



A clarion blast in sorrow ; an anodyne in 

strife ; 
A song like a ray of moonlight that gleams 

athwart a tempest. 
Sound ever, O Song ! sound sweetly, 

whether I live or die. 
My guardian, my adviser, my comforter, my 

comrade, 
A voice from the sinless regions — a message 

from the sky ! 



— Charles Mackay 




A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. 



A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO, 






-}, 




JiyjAY the Babylonish curse 

Strait confound my stammering verse. 
If I can a passage see 
In this word — perplexity. 
Or a fit expression find. 
Or a language to my mind 
(Still the phrase is wide or scant), 
To take leave of thee. Great Plant ! 
Or in any terms relate 
Half my love, or half my hate; 
For I hate, yet love thee so, 
That, whichever thing I show. 
The plain truth will seem to be 
A constrained hyperbole, 



io8 A Farewell to Tobacco 

And the passion to proceed 
More for a mistress than a weed. 

Sooty retainer to the vine, 
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine ; 
Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon 
Thy begrimed complexion, 
And, for thy pernicious sake, 
More and greater oaths to break 
Than reclaimed lovers take 
'Gainst women : thou thy siege dost lay 
Much too in the female way. 
While thou suck'st the laboring breath 
Faster than kisses or than death. 

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us 
That our worst foes cannot find us, 
And ill fortune, that would thwart us, 
Shoots at rovers, shooting at us, 
While each man, through thy heightening steam, 
Does like a smoking Etna seem ; 
And all about us does express 
(Fancy and wit in richest dress) 
A Sicilian fruitfulness. 

Thou through such a mist dost show us, 
That our best friends do not know us, 
And, for these allowed features 
Due to reasonable creatures, 
Liken'st us to free Chimeras, 



A Farewell to Tobacco 109 

Monsters that, who see us, fear us ; 
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 

Bacchus we know, and we allow 
His tipsy rites. But what art thou. 
That but by reflex canst show 
What his deity can do. 
As the false Egyptian spell 
Aped the true Hebrew miracle ? 
Some few vapors thou mayst raise. 
The weak brain may serve to amaze. 
But to the reins and nobler heart 
Canst nor life nor heat impart. 

Brother of Bacchus, later born. 
The old world was sure forlorn. 
Wanting thee, that aldest more 
The god's victories than before 
All his panthers, and the brawls 
Of his piping Bacchanals. 
These, as stale, we disallow, 
Or judge of thee meant : only thou 
His true Indian conquest art; 
And, for ivy round his dart. 
The reformed god now weaves 
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 

Scent to match thy rich perfume 
Chemic art did ne'er presume ; 



I lo A Farewell to Tobacco 

Through her quaint alembic strain, 
None so sovereign to the brain : 
Nature, that did in thee excel. 
Framed again no second smelL 
Roses, violets, but toys 
For the smaller sort of boys 
Or for greener damsels meant ; 
Thou art the only manly scent. 

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, 
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, 
Africa, that brags her foison. 
Breeds no such prodigious poison ; 
Henbane, nightshade, both together. 
Hemlock, aconite — 

Nay, rather. 
Plant divine, of rarest virtue : 
Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 
'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee ; 
None e'er prospered who defamed thee ; 
Irony all, and feigned abuse. 
Such as perplexed lovers use 
At a need, when, in despair 
To paint forth their fairest fair, 
Or in part but to express 
That exceeding comeliness 
Which their fancies doth so strike 
They borrow language of dislike ; 



A Farewell to 'Tobacco 1 1 1 

And, Instead of Dearest Miss, 
Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, 
And those forms of old admiring, 
Call her Cockatrice and Siren, 
Basilisk, and all that's evil 
Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, 
Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, 
Monkey, Ape, and twenty more ; 
Friendly Traitress, loving Foe, 
Not that she is truly so. 
But no other way they know 
A contentment to express, 
Borders so upon excess, 
That they do not rightly wot 
Whether it be from pain or not. 

Or, as men, constrained to part 
With what's nearest to their heart. 
While their sorrow's at the height 
Lose discrimination quite. 
And their hasty wrath let fall, 
To appease their frantic gall, 
On the darling thing whatever. 
Whence they feel it death to sever. 
Though it be, as they, perforce. 
Guiltless of the sad divorce. 
For I must (nor let It grieve thee, 
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee : 



112 A Farewell to 'Tobacco 

For thy sake, Tobacco, I 
Would do anything but die. 
And but seek to extend my days 
Long enough to sing thy praise. 
But as she, who once hath been 
A king's consort, is a queen 
Ever after, nor will bate 
Any tittle of her state. 
Though a widow, or divorced. 
So I, from thy converse forced. 
The old name and style retain, 
A right Katherine of Spain ; 
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 
Of the blest Tobacco Boys ; 
Where, though I, by sour physician, 
Am debarred the full fruition 
Of thy favors, I may catch 
Some collateral sweets, and snatch 
Sidelong odors, that give Hfe 
Like glances from a neighbor's wife ; 
And still live in the by-places 
And the suburbs of thy graces ; 
And in thy borders take delight, 
An unconquered Canaanite. 

/<^f^^k^ — Charlks Lamb. 



A GOLDEN GIRL, 



A GOLDEN GIRL, 




T UCY is a golden girl ; 

But a man, a man should woo her ! 
They who seek her shrink aback, 

When they should, like storms, pursue her. 

All her smiles are hid in light ; 

All her hair is lost in splendor ; 
But she hath the eyes of night 

And a heart that's over-tender. 



Yet the foolish suitors fly 

(Is 't excess of dread or duty ?) 

From the starlight of her eye. 
Leaving to neglect her beauty ! 



ii6 



A Golden Girl. 



Men by fifty seasons taught. 

Leave her to a young beginner. 
Who, without a second thought. 

Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. 

Lucy is a golden girl ! 

Toast her in a goblet brimming ! 
May the man that wins her wear 

On his heart the Rose of Women ! 

— Barry Cornwall. 




JOHN BARLEYCORN. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 




^pHERE was three Kings into the east. 

Three Kings both great and high, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and ploughed him down. 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 



But the cheerfu' Spring came kindly on. 

And show'rs be^an to fall : 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surpris'd them all. 



I20 'John Barleycorn. 

The sultry suns of Summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears. 

That no one should him wrong. 

The sober Autumn enter'd mild. 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

His color sicken'd more and more. 

He faded into age : 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp. 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart 

Like a rogue for forgery. 

They laid him down upon his back. 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm. 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim. 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 



John Barleycorn. 121 

They laid him out upon the floor 

To work him further woe, 
And still, as signs of life appeared, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood 

And drank it round and round ; 
And still the more and more they drank 

Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise. 
For if you do but taste his blood 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then leit us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland. 

— Robert Burns. 



IN PRAISE OF ANGLING. 



IN PRAISE OF ANGLING. 




/QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares, 
•i^w Anxious sighs, untimely tears. 

Fly, fly to courts, 

Fly to fond worldling's sports. 
Where strained sardonic smiles are g-lossing still. 
And grief is forced to laugh against her will. 

Where mirth's but mummery. 

And sorrows only real be. 



Fly from our country pastimes, fly. 
Sad troops of human misery. 

Come, serene looks. 

Clear as the crystal brooks. 
Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see 
The rich attendance on our poverty ; 



126 In Praise of Angling. 

Peace and a secure mind, 

Which ail men seek, we only find. 



Abused mortals ! did you know 

Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow ? 

You'd scorn proud towers, 

And seek them in these bowers. 
Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may 

shake, 
But blustering care could never tempest make ; 

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us. 

Saving of fountains that glide by us. 

Here's no fantastic mask nor dance. 
But of our kids that frisk and prance ; 

Nor wars are seen. 

Unless upon the green. 
Two harmless lambs are butting one the other. 
Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother; 

And wounds are never found. 

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. 

Here are no entrapping baits 
To hasten to too hastv fates ; 

Unless it be 

The fond credulity 



In Praise of Angling. 127 

Of silly jfish, which (worldling like) still look 
Upon the bait, but never on the hook ; 

Nor envy, 'less among 

The birds, for prize of their sweet song. 

Go, let the diving negro seek 

For gems, hid in some forlorn creek ; 

We all pearls scorn, 

Save what the dewy morn 
Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ; 

And gold ne'er here appears. 

Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 

Blest silent groves, O, may you be 
Forever mirth's best nurserv ! 

May pure contents 

Forever pitch their tents 
Upon these downs, these rocks, these mountains, 
And peace still slumber by these purling fountains. 

Which we may every year 

Meet, when we come a-fishing here. 

— Sir Henry Wotton. 



THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR, 



THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. 



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TN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, 

And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars. 
Away from the world, and its toils and its cares, 
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure. 
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; 
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. 



This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks 
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books. 
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 
Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes 
from friends. 



132 The Cane-Bottom' d Chair. 

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all 

crack'd). 
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; 
A two-penny treasury, wondrous to see ; 
What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

No better divan need the Sultan require, 
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; 
And 'tis wonderfiil, surely, what music you ^Qt 
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; 
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; 
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and 

the chimes, 
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and 

old times ; 
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie, 
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.' 

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest. 
There is one that I love and I cherish the best: 
For the finest of couches that 's padded with hair 
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd 
chair. 



The Cane-Bottom d Chair. 133 

'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high shoulder'd, worm-eaten 

seat, 
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; 
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. 

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, 
i\ thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd 
old arms ! 

I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ; 
I wished myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. 

It was but a moment she sat in this place, 
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ; 
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair. 
And she sat there and bloom'd in my cane- 
bottom'd chair. 

And so I have valued my chair ever since. 
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; 
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare. 
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd 
chair. 

When the candles burn low, and the company's 

gone. 
In the silence of night as I sit here alone — 



134 



'The Cane-Bottoni d Chair. 



I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — 
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. 

She comes from the past and revisits my room ; 
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; 
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair. 
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. 

— William Makepeace Thackeray. 




HUNTING SONG. 



HUNTING SONG. 




\\/'AKEN, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mountain dawns the day ; 
All the jolly chase is here, 
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear ! 
Hounds are in their couples yelling. 
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. 
Merrily, merrily, mingle they : — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 



Waken lords and ladies gay, 
The mist has left the mountain gray, 
Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ; 
And foresters have busy been. 



138 Hunting Song. 

To track the buck in thickets green ; 
Now we come to chant our lay : — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 
To the green-wood haste away ; 
We can show you where he lies. 
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; 
We can show the marks he made, 
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd : 
You shall see him brought to bay : — 
" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Louder, louder, chant the lay. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 

Tell them youth, and mirth and glee, 

Run a course as well as we ; 

Time, stern huntsman ! who can balk. 

Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk : 

Think of this, and rise with day. 

Gentle lords and ladies gay. 

— Sir Wai-tkr Scott 




DRINKING SONG. 



DRINKING SONG. 




Inscription for an Antique Pitcher. 

^OME, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 

On his breast his head is sunken. 
Vacantly he leers and chatters. 



Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 
Ivy crowns that brow supernal 



142 Drinking Song. 

As the forehead of Apollo, 
And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses. 

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations. 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations. 

Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. 

Judged by no o'er zealous rigor. 

Much this mystic throng expresses ; 

Bacchus was the type of vigor, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels, 

Of a faith long since forsaken ; 
Now the Satyrs, changed to devils. 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 



Drinking Song. j .<, 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 
And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chanted 

Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys. 
Never drank the wine he vaunted 

In his dithyrambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 

Wreathed about with classic fables ; 

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us. 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus. 

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 




DEDICATION. 



DEDICATION. 




S one who, walking in the twiUght gloom. 
Hears round about him voices as it darkens. 
And seeing not the forms from which they come, 
Pauses from time to time, and turns and 
hearkens • 



So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! 

I hear your voices, softened by the distance. 
And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends 

His words of friendship, comfort and assistance. 



If any thought of mine, or sung or told. 
Has ever given delight or consolation. 

Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold. 
By every friendly sign and salutation. 



148 Dedication. 



Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! 

Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token. 
That teaches me, when seeming most alone. 

Friends are around us, though no word be 
spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; 

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, 
In which v/e feel the pressure of a hand, — 

One touch of fire, — and all the rest is mystery! 

The pleasant books, that silently among 

Our household treasures take familiar places. 

And are to us as if a living tongue 

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces. 

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold. 

With eye of sense, your outward form and 
semblance ; 

Therefore to me ye never will grow old. 

But live forever young in my remembrance. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away. 
Your gentle voices will flow on forever. 

When life grows bare and tarnished with decay. 
As through a leafless landscape flows a river. 



Dedication. I49 

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, 
Being oftimes of different tongues and nations, 

But the endeavor for the selfsame ends. 

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk. 
Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; 

Not interrupting with intrusive talk 

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest. 
At your warm fireside, when the lamps are 
lighted. 

To have my place reserved among the rest. 
Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited ! 

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 




THE TABLES TURNED. 



THE TABLES TURNED. 




Up ! up ! my friend, and quit your books ; 
Or surely you'll grow double : 
Up ! up ! my friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow, 

Through all the long green fields has spread. 

His first sweet evening yellow. 



Books ! 'tis a dull endless strife : 
Come, hear the woodland linnet. 
How sweet his music ! on my life. 
There's more of wisdom in it. 



1 54 The Tables Turned. 

And hark ! how bhthe the throstle sings ! 
He, too, is no mean preacher : 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which nature brings ; 
Our meddling intellect 

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : — 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art ; 
Close up those barren leaves ; 
Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
That watches and receives. 

— William Wadswo«th. 



AULD LANG STNE. 



AULD LANG STNE. 




CHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days of o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll talc a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 



We twa hae run about the braes. 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot. 

Sin auld lang syne. 



If 8 Auld Lang Syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup of kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne. 



We twa hae paidl't i' the burn. 
From mornin' sun till dine ; 

But seas between us braid hae roar'd. 
Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne. 



And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gi'es a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught. 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne. 



Auld Lang Syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup, 
And surely I'll be mine ; 

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne. 



^59 



— Robert Burns 




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